Lyn stood strong over the fallen Skeletor. Her blade was slowly melting under the strain of his caustic ichor, but she ignored the pit pat dripping. The hot winds of the lava pits blew against her face, scorching off the beads of sweat as they collected on her pale flesh. Her breathing was ragged and heavy, the labor not only exhausting her, but also the emotional toll. She welled up for but a moment, and willed the tear back into her eye. No, this scum would warrant no tears. Skeletor had robbed her of her son, robbed her of her father, and robbed her of her beloved Keldor. She had done unspeakable things in the interest of the vengeance she now held, endured treatment befitting only the worst of adversaries and survived a barrage of belittlement, beratement, and bellicose belligerence. She had survived her rape, and she had survived a childbirth in hiding, scurrying like a rat through darkened corridors, damp umbilical dragging sloppily along weathered stone behind her as she fled his assassination squads while trying to secure her newborn. These were but a few of the myriad memories she had finally avenged, and now, she was at last at peace. Or would be, when she finally shook the pursuer who had just landed loudly on the basalt mound behind her, heels driven in hard from a high leap.

Shokoti landed more heavily then she'd like, but she wanted the drama of the moment to startle her target. Lyn was so consumed by the dead body of Skeletor at her feet that the Gar assassin had wanted to be sure to make an impression. Fear would stimulate her enjoyment of the kill. Not that she or her beloved champion would mourn the death of Skeletor, far from it; his corpse had been interred once before and raised by arcane magicks most blasphemous to live and harry He-Man once again, but vengeance, the final blow, that act belonged to Faker. As he was now denied, Lyn must die. Shokoti had deliberately over leapt her target so she could land hard, her heels digging into the basalt mound she was aiming for and inspiring a bone chilling "CRACK" as she alit. Mission accomplished. Though Lyn was trying to play cool, Shokoti saw her shoulders pop at the sound and she knew her target was scared. Especially since she no longer had any sorcery to back her up.

Shokoti hopped down gleefully from the mound, bounding like a kid goat to land on the path Lyn had taken before the pool of lava where she had trapped her former master and stabbed him through the spine. Shokoti took but a second to notice and appreciate the skillfullness of the stab, it was exquisitely placed to be a killing blow, yet not to paralyze or numb the body as his lungs collapsed. Were she anyone other than the dark queen Evil Lyn, Shokoti would have been impressed. Instead, she snarled at her foe "Your time is over witch. You've robbed my lord of his rightful vengeance, and for that, you must die. Because you slew the Hated One for us, I will spare you an agonizing death and make this quick. Pray to your father that I don't rescind that offer."

Lyn did not turn around for her retort. "Bitch, your champion, your devoted companion, is but a stepping stone, a single stair upon the grand palatial stage which I call my vengeance. You and yours have never had a right to him, his death was for me and me alone. I've suffered horrors your puny mind could barely comprehend in the name of my vengeance and at last it is done. My life is lived. If you think I've come this far to let your pretty little nonsense interrupt my plans, you're a damnable fool. I give you this chance alone: turn, go back the way you came, tell your champion that Skeletor is dead and that you did it. Or tell him I did it, but that you lost my trail, whatever you chose... but if you leave now, I will not strangle you to death with your own innards. If I leave this place, and you have not fled my presence, I will spend a thousand years hunting your soul in Subternia and killing you again and again. With my mission now filled, what else have I to do?" She chuckled slightly at that comment. She had not really anticipated success, and was indeed now left wondering what cause she would undertake now that the world was free of his presence. Killing Shokoti in the afterlife seemed like an acceptable alternative to nothing. Lyn smiled slightly, to herself mostly, and rolled her head on her neck, stretching it in all directions and noticing a distinct lack of footsteps behind her. "Poor child," she mused, "She isn't smart enough to flee, yet smart enough to know not to press the attack. Oh Faker, you did find an interesting muse, didn't you?" Lyn spun slowly on her left heel, and indeed, there was Shokoti, twin bone blades extended out behind her wrists, bouncing in her hand like a child taunting a cat with a ball of yarn. The Gar assassin was grinning ear to ear.

Shokoti yelled to her target "Because you are now crippled with a lack of magick, I shall refrain from using it to kill you, out of deference to your infirmity. You will instead die by the sword. HA!" and forward she charged. Her torso twisted as she reared back her right hand, and extended her left forward, the butt of the blade serving as her point of range. In a mere four strides, she was upon her target.

Lyn didn't move, not even to shift her weight, until her assailant was within a single stride. As Shokoti lunged forward, the butt of her left blade serving as her range point, Lyn noticed her right hand grip the hilt tighter and knew the female assassin was intending her to duck towards her right to avoid the left punch, then she would cut upwards with the right blade, shearing Lyn's head from her shoulders. Stupid little wench. Lyn raised her rotted dagger casually in front of her face and snapped it sharply towards Shokoti's face. The cankerous ichor slung from the blade and directly into the hate contorted face of her assailant. Shokoti screamed and reflexively gripped towards her face, pulling her hands in and raising her blades blindly outward. The reflex had a defensive component, but it's main purpose was to cover her face from continued assault. Lyn ducked under the blind swing, to the right side her attacked had intended, but rather than prone victim now, she was tigress, and slashed as Shokoti's hamstring just behind the knee with the rotted and now nearly useless dagger. The blade was dulled and pitted severely, and it bit like a mouth full of broken teeth, but the acid again did its job and the Gar assassin dropped her blades, and moved her right hand to her leg, surrendering her swords as she frantically attempted to wipe the corrosive blood from her rent limb and away from her eyes. Lyn now stood behind her would-be assassin and pulled her head back by a handful of hair. "Remember this day bitch, forevermore. The day you thought you had Lyn cornered and outgunned, and the day she made two gestures, and claimed your left eye." At this, she plunged her thumb down greedily into Shokoti's eye socket, feeling the cornea slush under her cuticle, her own eyes alight with a savage fire at the younger woman's tormented scream. Her hands flew up and tried to protect the violated orbital socket, but Lyn callously stomped on the severed burning leg and she snarled deeply, twisting her entire torso down to plunge the thumb more greedily towards the back of the socket. When her nail struck bone, she relented and released her foe, and Shokoti slumped over in a heap, sobbing and screaming, clutching at her face. Lyn slowly stood fully erect again, shaking the tufts of rent hair from her right hand, and examining the impaled eye upon her left thumb with the cool regard of a scientist. She contemplated the appendage's fate for but a moment before shoving it into her mouth and sucking it from her thumb. She consumed the eye, uttering a guttural yummy sound as she chewed and ate it. She hoped that beneath her flaccid screams, Shokoti could hear and understand that that yummy sound was the tigress letting the gazelle off the claw, this time. She lifted the two discarded bone swords, which were similar to Skeletor's own blade, but smaller for a female hand. They were nice craftsmanship, but they were of Skeletor, or were close enough, so Lyn tossed them into the lava pool. She walked over and kicked the sliced tendons of Shokoti once more, an act that finally overloaded the assassin's senses, and she passed out. Seeing this, Lynn kicked the leg several more times, opening the horrid jagged gash even more. Lyn spat upon her fallen prey and left, wordless.

so, as a writing exercise, i'm doing a series of journal entries written by evil lyn, as she was watching keldor descend, and attempting to record her thoughts and feelings to implore him to change tactics. the nice thing is, as journal entries, i can keep the voice informal, and keep the text shorter. i'll update entries as i write them.

My dear Keldor, I offer you this journal I've kept these past few months for hope that it penetrates your psyche in some way that my personal entreaties have not and pray that the case I make will not fall upon deaf ear. Hordak is trouble. Every time, without fail, even for one as cunning and clever as you my love, he is dangerous. My father instructed me well in the magical disciplines, and during my research, tales of Hordak came up often. His technomancy and spellcraft are well above anything that Eternia has had as reference for perhaps thousands of years. The only mage of comparable skill lies in antiquity, and may not even be real but merely a fictional personage to inspire young spellcrafters. Whatever the case there, Hordak is not to be trusted. I see you after your counsels with him, and you are drained, inferior, beneath yourself and wrecked for hours afterwards. The trans-dimensional communication spell he has taught you is powerful, but it demands a terrible price of you, a price he could pay far easier than you, and yet he does not. The magics he is teaching are dangerous! We use staves and talismans to contain powerful spells because memorizing spells and formulas is dangerous! This arcane knowledge eroded my father, and I would not see it undo my magnificent Keldor as well. You are far too intelligent and far too pretty to fall prey to bad magics, but I fear that is the precise path you are upon.

DayRaven has inspired me to try my hand at this. Submitted for your perusal, then, a short story detailing a character I would love to see turned into plastic, with a preamble that finally gives a name to Hordak's / Horde Prime's species.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

“The Desmodans of Horde World – a planet where bat-like forms became the prevalent niche-occupiers – evolved from small, ground-dwelling, pack-hunting insectivores into a much larger, chiefly blood-drinking form that still hunted in large groups. Vicious and brutal while hunting, their natural loose teamwork enabled the species to go from small competing packs to much larger swarms, and eventually a single world-dominating Horde that took to the stars to find new prey, as they had ravaged their homeworld to near-desolation.

Competition for resources within the lower ranks of the Horde could be fierce, leading most Desmodans to become gluttonous and grasping. Advancement could only come through sufficiently competitive and domineering attitudes, so that the higher the Desmodan’s rank, the more powerful, cruel and greedy he is guaranteed to be, and vice versa. These attitudes are instinctively and societally reinforced by natural and cultural selection, respectively, becoming more pronounced with each generation. If such is the case, one can scarcely imagine how terrible Horde Prime must be compared to his younger brother. The civilised mind boggles.”

- Excerpt from the first draft of The Evil Horde: Biological imperatives behind the behaviour of the natives of Horde World, Wulvrik Smallen, Eternos University Press.

* * *

DEATH FROM ABOVE

The Horde’s Fifth Legion milled about, massing behind a ridge to the east of Castle Grayskull. More than a thousand robot troopers, with nearly a hundred living Desmodan troopers and NCOs from Horde World, adjusted their grips on their weapons. They were waiting for the crucial summons to charge in, pouring over the ridge and down into the battlefield below, forming the second wave of the combined Horde / Serpent Army assault. It was their big moment. Once the Eternians and their allies were overwhelmed, the Fifth Legion were to turn on their Snake Men allies. Eternia would fall, giving the Horde the power to cut swathes through the universe, and eliminate their enemies with ease.

“Stand ready, men,” growled a Desmodan squad leader, the visor of his helmet flashing as he projected his voice through his armour’s speakers. “Any moment now, and we’ll make history.”

The sky darkened. The assembled soldiers turned their eyes and optic sensors upward. A massive dark cloud billowed and roiled through sky out of nowhere, casting the Fifth Legion into deep shadow. Uneasy murmurs ran through the ranks in waves.

“Troopers!” The voice of Colonel Blast barked through the army’s comm-systems. “It’s just a cloud. Probably a side-effect of the magics being used on the battleground.” Standing well in advance of his forces near the crest of the ridge, the commander pointed up at the offending meteorological feature. “I’ve seen this happen before. Ignore it.”

“But, sir, I’m detecting a solid core to that cloud,” ventured a robot.

“What?!”

“My radar says there’s something as big as a fortress in there.”

Colonel Blast’s gaze whipped around to stare at the cloud. His targeting visor came down over his eyes, and sure enough, there was something in there, the size and shape of a craggy mountaintop.

“Artillerays! Aim for that object! Be prepared to fire on m . . . ” The colonel never finished his command. Lightning lanced down from the towering thunderhead and struck him squarely, causing him to vanish in an explosion of molten metal, overloaded power cells, flash-cooked flesh, and charred bone.

Troopers, biological and robotic alike, leaped back in startled surprise. They looked at the smoking crater where Colonel Blast had just stood in stunned silence. The tableau held for the merest moment before another bolt of blazing electric death burst into the midst of a knot of soldiers, scattering parts and causing havoc with circuitry.

“RUN!!!” bellowed a panicked corporal.

Chaos spread as over a thousand troopers tried to go in a dozen different directions, getting in each others’ way. Some collided with their comrades and fell over, others were shoved aside and trampled. Lightning blasted the landscape again and again and again, forking and leaping throughout the Fifth Legion, striking down dozens of soldiers with each bolt. Artillerays were blown apart, entire squads were fried in an instant, and troopers on hover sleds and rocket bikes were swatted from the sky. The ground shook and the air sizzled for what seemed like hours, but was only a matter of fifteen minutes. Those on the periphery of the Legion, or those simply fast or lucky enough, were all that were left. A few troop transports and hover sleds remained functioning, and they were focused on getting as far away from the assembly point as possible.

One Desmodan trooper, however, turned to look up as he realised the lightning storm had petered out. The threatening thunderhead was starting to dissipate, its energy spent. The leading edge billowed outward as the object hidden inside eased forward. “Look,” the trooper cried, “it’s coming out!”

The lumpen shadow pushed its way out of the ragged wisps of remaining cloud. A disc, hundreds of yards across and a dozen yards thick, supported a structure that looked like an organic conglomeration of domes and curved talonite spires. A few visible balconies hinted that this was indeed an airborne building, a palace, instead of a spaceworthy ship. Some of the Horde Troopers paused to stare at the apparition. They were the first on the ground to witness the palace’s portcullis grind open, and a large swarm emerge.

Half-sized sky sleds, painted a tasteful burgundy and with a korlok head gracing the prow, fanned out, scouting the terrain below. Their riders were diminutive tusked orcs whose armour matched the colour of their vehicles. When the sky sleds had spread out sufficiently, they simply stopped and hovered, awaiting their signal to engage.

“Mm hm hm hm hm!” A rich, gruff, plummy chortle came over the new attackers’ comlinks. “To make things a bit more interesting, five hundred gold pieces to the orc with the most confirmed kills. Flying robots are worth two footsoldiers. Vehicles, ten. Now, my lads – ATTACK!”

A cheer rose up from the madly zooming orc mercenaries. “Ya gotta love ’im,” broadcast one of the officers to his fellows. “Ev’ry year, he gets more fun ta work for!” This was followed by another cheer of agreement as the aerial squadron dove to pick off their enemies.

* * *

Kothos rested his fists on his wide hips as he looked out upon the mopping-up operation below him from his floating palace’s platform. His baggy brown face and jowls rearranged themselves around a wide smile. Yes, abandoning his evil ways to do good on Eternia had been, on reflection, very satisfying indeed.

yeah... i like that beedo, i like it a lot. the depiction of the war was excellent, and anytime you can introduce flying orchish mercs, you've won. well done sir.

i have often wondered what it must be like, from a narrative standpoint, if you're a non-magic user in a magical world, and you touched on that. think of the crazy starfruit an eternian experiences... you're in a techno magical world, but not everyone has access to everything, so while you might know what a robot is, maybe you've never seen an orc, and have no idea what an energy blast from a magic wand looks like... so you grow up, join the palace guards of eternos, and suddenly, HOLY CRAP, there's red lightning and black fog and illusions to contend with, as well as magic sword wielding supermen who can rip up mountains and chuck them like tennis balls... what does that do your psyche? for that matter, what does that do to your viscera the first time you're punched by a guy who hits so hard, you fly back 15 feet through a stone pillar? even if your physiology can withstand that kind of impact, how must it mess up your psyche? i mean, it's surely not comfortable, right? and you just pierced solid stone as you were used as a projectile weapon by a guy who looks like an orange monkey and smells like bea arthur's used panty liner.

then again, eternian physics confuses me... why does anyone wear armor, when the metals used to make it appear to be more fragile than the flesh of those wearing it? seriously, in both the cartoons and the mini comics, guys will take bashes from weapons and blasts from energy that destroy the armor they're wearing, but not injure the naked person that likewise got blasted... huh? and it seems like pretty much everyone in the mythos is strong enough to destroy the eternian chert with impunity, no damage to the fascia at all... weird place, eternia. i explain it that the latent magic of the realm strengthens biological tissue over time... and then there's he-man, who in essence, gets a full charge of that energy every time he transforms.

Thank 'e, mate, much appreciated! Kothos and his orc soldiers were characters I'd've loved to have seen return in the Filmation cartoon after their two appearances, especially after Kothos' reformation. He was a fun Sydney-Greenstreet-esque character, and I hope he eventually gets a figure somehow.

As for the Eternian physics / hardiness, it boils down to Standard Comic Book Operational Procedures. Normal Person A can get punched through a wall, but still live, with just a tattered shirt and a couple cross-hatchings on his cheek. Superhero B can get clobbered with a building, but all that will do is break his visor, rip a sleeve off his bodysuit in a fetching way, and -- in dire circumstances -- cause a small cut on the brow and a bloody nose. };D I like how Watchmen dealt with "Normals'" reactions to superheroes; it's not something you see often, as you point out.

By the way, I think these count as fanfic, and they rule, and rule hard:

In a remote area of the Ice Mountains, inaccessible except by flying, stands a citadel of giant domes and chasm-spanning bridges: Darksmoke, the dragon-home. In the largest dome, behind an ornate door, is a deep simmering fire-pit more than a dozen yards across. A heat-haze rises from the pit, baking the air to uncomfortably warm temperatures. Small vents allow fresh air in and keep the dome from getting hot enough to destroy its contents. Glittering treasures – precious metals, sparkling gems, rare books, delicate sculptures, fine fabrics, magical artefacts, and exquisitely crafted weapons, both mystical and mundane – lay strewn about, without apparent regard to possibility of theft. Because nobody, no matter how brave or arrogant or stupid, would dare to steal from Granamyr.

These days, Granamyr – Granamyr the Wise, Granamyr the Great, Granamyr the Lord of the Dragons of Darksmoke – liked to sleep in his fire-pit, conserving his energy. While still one of the most powerful magic-wielders in the Five Dimensions, he wasn’t as young as he used to be, and his naps were getting longer and more frequent. He liked sleeping even more than he liked showing off, which used to be his favourite activity in the world, many, many, many years ago.

“GRANAMYR!” A gravelly voice drifted down into the bowels of his sanctuary. “GRANAMYR!” Someone was bellowing to him. Someone. Had interrupted. His nap!

* * *

The entire dome trembled, rumbling as if an earthquake were set to shake it asunder. Piles of treasure toppled and slid in small avalanches around the walls. A colossal jet of flame shot up from the well, nearly reaching the ceiling, narrowly avoiding charring some of the more flammable treasures. With an ear-shattering roar, a dark red mountain of angry scales shot up from inside the pit, and cast about with glowing yellow eyes to glare at the pitifully small intruder lying prostate on the ground.

“Who dares disturb my slumber?” demanded the Lord of Darksmoke. His voice was surprisingly quiet and carried the creak of advanced age, but there was still enough irritation and threat in the question to leave no doubt as to his mood.

The small figure making obeisance far, far below him rose to a kneeling position, looked up, and spoke with a rough voice interspersed with occasional rasping breaths.

“My Lord Granamyr – hhhhhhaaaa – I have come to ask that I be allowed to aid in the fight against the Evil Horde and the Serpent Army.”

Granamyr slowly, menacingly, brought his head down level with the intruder and squinted his eyes for a better look. The pleader’s skull-like head and curved black horns swum into better focus. He was a dragon-man; an extremely rare hybrid of the kind normally shunned by both dragons and men alike. He was a recent addition to the population of Darksmoke, seeking sanctuary in his travels.

“Why, Turroth?” demanded Granamyr. “The affairs of Humans and others like them are not the affairs of our kind. And did they not bestow upon you an offensive and degrading cognomen the last time you went into their world? No, Turroth. Let the small ones fight amongst themselves. We owe them nothing, and they will leave us be . . . if they know what’s good for them.”

“Hhhhhhaaaa – My Lord, some of those who fight the invaders are . . . my friends. Your friends, as well – hhhhaaaaaa – if I may be so bold.”

“It is not my place to meddle in their affairs, Turroth, nor yours. All of them will pass into history, while we will endure. Whatever they do will have no impact on us. They are unimportant. They were insignificant thousands of years ago, and they are insignificant now. I will not give permission for you to go.”

“Hhhhhaaaa – But, My Lord . . . .”

“SILENCE! You would defy me, Turroth? Knowing full well all the ways in which I could punish you?”

“To keep my word to a friend, My Lord? To keep my promise to help others to atone for the harm I’ve done in the past? Hhhhhhaaaaaa. Yes, My Lord. I would.”

Granamyr’s eyes narrowed to luminous yellow slits as he appraised the diminutive dragon-man in front of him. Slowly, ponderously, Granamyr straightened up and perched on the lip of the well, not taking his eyes off Turroth. A deep rumble of contemplation issued from Granamyr’s chest.

“You show courage and honour, Turroth,” pronounced the Lord of Darksmoke, eventually. “And a dragon’s promise should always be kept. Very well. Go and help as you see fit. These must be worthy friends for you to risk my displeasure.”

Turroth allowed himself a smirk. “Hhhhhhaaaa, yes, My Lord. He-Man saved my life, once, when we were enemies. Hhhhhaaaa. That sort of deed tends to impress.”

“He-Man?” Now Granamyr was smiling. “Then go with my blessing and give him my best regards.”

“Hhhhhhaaaaa. Thank you, Lord Granamyr.”

Granamyr began to lower himself back down the well from which he had sprung. “You can thank me best by letting me get back to sleep.” His head rose up again briefly over the lip of the fire-pit. “And by bringing me back something nice and shiny.” The giant horned head, capped with a battered iron helmet, lowered into the ground again.

“It is a promise, My Lord. Hhhhaaaaa.” The dragon-man named Turroth rose to his feet.

“Farewell, Turroth,” echoed the elderly voice from out of the hole in the ground. “I wish you success.”

“Dragoon,” muttered Turroth under his breath, as he turned to leave. “My name is Dragoon, now.”

“WHAT?!!”

“Errr . . . I said, ‘Thank you,’ My Lord!”

“Yes,” came the echo. “That’s what I thought.”

* * *

Once he heard the doors slam shut far above him, Granamyr rearranged himself amidst the mystical flames of his lair.

i liked this piece a lot. i feel like you captured the environment and character of granamyr very well (and i think the two are linked, there should definitely a change in the air when you're addressing the lord of darksmoke)

BTW, i know you're not reading the new comic, but there was a moment in the last issue i have to share with you... hordak destroyed castle grayskull. like blew it the mangosteen up... with his mind. as in "i don't want this here anymore, so it's now gone," kind of thing. he kicked the crap out of he-man and adora, but they've licked their wounds and are attempting the upgrade montage, but essentially, they're positioning hordak as the supreme grand high pooba of Upper Butt Crack. in previous issues, he was draining the life force of every eternian to power himself up... in astral form... from despondos. i've gotten into a bit of an argument, friendly, but a disagreement, with a chap on facebook over it as i feel that they're overplaying the potency of the villain just a tad. as it relates to your story, how do you think granamyr would deal with a threat of that magnitude? hordak's truly a planetary level threat, less like skeletor and more like galactus in this new comic, would the dragon king get off his ass, or take the zen approach and await destruction stoically?

and what would it look like if he took a young eternian and empowered him with the Power Of Darksmoke, as a compatriot to the Power of Grayskull? he'd be a... Dragon-Man?

I think that if Granamyr took one look at Hordak and thought he would be a serious threat, he would Do Something Nasty and Irreversible to Hordak before he got to be too much of a threat.

I agree that the new "Galactus" Hordak sounds like he's being overblown.

The "By the Power of Darksmoke" sounds bloody nifty, with just one caveat: Granaymr is the ultimate hoarder. I can't imagine him wanting to give up any of his power. But, if he put a time-limit on the access to his power, and only gave up as much as was needed and not an erg more . . . .